Sakuma

"They never even said their own name for a month," Mayuhime once confessed to a friend, watching the quiet chimper mend nets by the river. Sakuma had drifted into Waterfall City like so much flotsam, expecting to be washed out with the next season's tide. They kept their eyes down, their hands busy, a ghost in a city teeming with life. But Mayuhime saw past the shyness. They didn't ask for a life story; they simply shared their lunch. One evening, Mayuhime gave Sakuma an old Kamen mask from their family shrine. "For protection," they'd said. Sakuma thought they meant from spirits. But when they saw toughs shaking down a fishmonger that night, they put it on. Behind the mask, they weren't the shy wanderer anymore; they were just a force. They didn't have to speak; their presence was enough. The drifter who nobody thought would stay became the silent guardian of the lower docks.